Bruce, who had absolutely no experience with a chain saw, quickly yielded the tool to Nick, who had at least held one before. It took them ten minutes to figure out how to start the damned thing, but Nick was soon rampaging around the backyard, slicing up even the thinnest of limbs and branches. Bruce followed at a safe distance and gathered the debris. He was tossing some limbs into a pile when a Santa Rosa policeman appeared from nowhere. Bruce signaled and Nick reluctantly shut down the chain saw. Another one could be heard in the distance.
The officer introduced himself, and after a few minutes of storm talk said, “There are some fatalities, sorry to say. Looks like most were on the north end.”
Bruce nodded and wanted to know what this had to do with him.
The officer went on, “Your friend Nelson Kerr took a head wound and didn’t make it.”
“Nelson!” Bruce said in disbelief. “Nelson’s dead?”
“Afraid so. And he left your name and number as his local contact.”
“But what happened to him?”
“Don’t know. I was not at the scene. I was told to find you. My captain asks that you come to the scene and identify the body.”
Bruce shot a bewildered look at Nick, who was too stunned to speak, and said, “Well, sure. Let’s go.”
The officer looked at Nick and said, “Better bring that chain saw. We might need it.”
Parked in front of the house was a green and yellow John Deere all-terrain vehicle, a Gator, a two-seater with four-wheel drive. Bruce sat in the front, shoulder to shoulder with the officer, and Nick crawled into the back. They took off, turned west, and began dodging limbs and debris in the street. They moved away from downtown, zigzagging slowly through the devastation.
The damage was overwhelming. Every street was blocked with trees, limbs, downed wires, lawn furniture, boards, shingles, garbage, and standing water. Dozens of homes had been hit with limbs and branches. Only a few of the residents were outdoors, and those who were cleaning up appeared dazed. On Atlantic Avenue, a main thoroughfare to the beach, National Guardsmen were everywhere with chain saws, picks, and axes. The street was barely passable but the officer slowly worked the Gator through the cleanup chaos.
He said, “Looks like Pauley’s Sound got hit the worst. The Hilton really got hammered. Already found two bodies in the parking lot.”
“How many fatalities?” Bruce asked.
“Three so far. Your friend and those two but I’m afraid there’ll be more.” He turned off Atlantic and onto a narrow street that ran north and south. They weaved around thick limbs and debris, turned again and headed east and before long stopped at Fernando Street, the main drag along the beachfront. More Guardsmen were working to clear it. The officer stopped and they helped shove an overturned car out of the way. A hundred yards to the east, the ocean was calm, the sun was up and already hot.
Nelson Kerr lived in a three-story row house that lined a dead-end street not far from the Hilton. The units were heavily damaged, with blown-out windows and roofs torn off. They stopped in the street and walked to a driveway where Bob Cobb was waiting. Bruce shook his hand and Bob hugged him. His eyes were bloodshot, his long gray hair disheveled. “Rough night, partner,” he said. “Should’ve left with the smart folks.”
“Where’s Nelson?” Bruce asked.
“Around back.”
Nelson was lying crumpled over a short brick wall that ringed his patio. Definitely dead. He was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, old sneakers. Another policeman, a sergeant, was standing guard, obviously uncertain about what to do next. He offered a hand and said, “This your friend?”
Bruce felt weak in the knees but gamely stepped forward for a closer look. Nelson’s head was hanging off the side of the brick wall. There was a bloody gash above his left ear. Below the body was a limb from one of several Japanese crepe myrtles. Other limbs and leaves littered the scene.
Bruce stepped back and said, “Yes, that’s him.”
Nick leaned closer for a look and said, “That’s Nelson.”
The sergeant said, “Okay. Do you guys mind staying here with the body while we get some help?”
“What kind of help are you talking about?” Bruce asked.
“Well, I’m not sure. I guess we need the medical examiner to pronounce him dead. Just stay with him, okay?”
“Sure, whatever,” Bruce replied.
“He left your name, address, and phone number, and he also wrote down the name of some folks in California. Mr. and Mrs. Howard Kerr. I assume they’re his parents.”
“Probably. I’ve never met them.”
“I guess we need to call them.” The sergeant looked at Bruce as if he could use some help.
Bruce wanted no part of that call and said, “That’s your job. But the phones are down, right?”
“We have a satellite phone back at the staging area at Main Beach. I guess I’ll get back there and make the call. I don’t suppose you could do that, could you?”
“No sir. I don’t know those people and it’s not my job.”
“Okay. Y’all just stay here with the body.”
“Will do.”
Bob asked, “Can we look around his house?”
“I guess. We’ll be back as soon as we can.” The two policemen got in the Gator and drove away.
Bob said, “These folks were a bit luckier. The surge stopped here at the front steps. I live two streets over and got five feet of water on the ground floor. I sat on the stairs and watched it rise. Not a good feeling.”
“I’m sorry, Bob,” Bruce said.
“I wouldn’t call Nelson lucky,” Nick said.
“Good point.”
They returned to the rear patio and stared at the body. Bob said, “I can’t imagine what he was doing outside in the middle of the storm. A really stupid move.”
“Didn’t he have a dog?” Bruce asked. “Maybe his dog got out.”
“He did have a dog,” Bob remembered. “A little black mutt, knee high, called him Boomer. Let’s find him,” Bob said as he opened the rear door. “I suppose it’s prudent not to touch anything.”
They stepped inside onto a wet floor in the unlit kitchen, looking for any sign of a dog. Nick observed, “If the dog was here wouldn’t we know it by now?”
“Probably,” Bruce said. “I’ll check the upstairs. You guys poke around down here.”
Five minutes later every room had been checked and there was no dog. They regrouped in the kitchen, where the heat and humidity were rising by the minute. They went out to the patio and stared at Nelson.
Bruce said, “We should at least cover the body.”
“Good idea,” Bob said, as if still in a daze. Nick found two large towels in a bathroom and gently placed them over the body. Bruce was suddenly nauseous and said, “I need to sit down, fellas.” Nelson had shoved four metal deck chairs under a table wedged in a corner of the patio, and they had not been scattered by the wind. They pulled them out, dusted off the debris, and sat in the shade twenty feet from the body. Nick found three bottles of warm beer in the fridge and they toasted their dead comrade.
Bruce said, “You got to know him pretty well, right?”
Bob replied, “I guess. He moved here, what, two years ago?”
“Something like that. His third novel had just been published and was selling well. He’d been divorced for a few years, no kids, and wanted to get away from California.”
They sipped their beers and studied the white towels. Nick said, “This really doesn’t make any sense. How could the dog get out in the middle of a major hurricane?”
“Maybe the damned thing had to pee,” Bob said. “Nelson let him out for a quick one, the dog got freaked out in the storm, got away, and Nelson panicked and tried to get him. That branch snapped and hit him in the head. I’ll bet he’s not the only fool who got hit by a falling limb last night. Bad timing. Bad luck.”
Bruce said, “He had just finished a novel. I wonder where the manuscript is.”
“Wow. That’s valuable stuff. Did you read it?” Nick asked.
“No, but I had promised to. He was just finishing the second draft. As far as I know, he had not sent it to New York.”
“It’s probably in his computer, don’t you think?”
“More than likely.”
Nick asked, “What happens to it?”
There was a long pause as they considered this. “Wasn’t he a lawyer?” Nick asked.
“He was, a big firm in San Francisco,” Bruce said. “I’m sure he has a will, and the will appoints an executor who’ll take charge of his affairs. It’ll be a mess.”
Bob said, “If he’s been here for two years then he’s likely to be a resident of Florida. Of course he is. He has Florida tags on his car. So wouldn’t the lawyer be here?”
“Hell if I know. He probably has, had, lawyer friends everywhere.”
Nick stepped into the condo and closed the door behind him.
Bob said, “We could wait here for hours, you know? These poor cops are chasing their tails right now.”
“We passed a bunch of National Guardsmen on the way over, so help has arrived.”
“What about your place?”
“Got lucky. Lots of downed limbs, no real damage. Nothing like around here.”
Bob said, “I should’ve left. Now I have to rip out carpets and drywall and shovel out mud and crap. A week with no electricity. Temps in the nineties. You have plenty of food?”
“I’m okay. I have a small generator so the beer is still cold. Come stay with me and Nick. There’s food, and when it’s gone we’ll go looting, have some fun.”
“Thanks.”
Nick cracked the door and said, “Hey, fellas, come take a look.”
They walked into the den where Nick lit a wall with a flashlight. Bob asked, “Where’d you get that?”
“Found it on the sofa. Look at those specks next to the bookshelves. Could be dried blood. There’s more on those books just to the right there.”
Bruce took the flashlight and examined the wall. There were eight to ten dark specks of something, perhaps blood. Perhaps not. But whatever the substance there was no way that Nelson or his housekeeper, if he had one, would have allowed the stains to remain where they were. Bob examined them and shook his head.
“Follow me,” Nick said, and they walked down a narrow hall to the bathroom. He lit the vanity and said, “See those pinkish stains beside the faucet? Could’ve been left behind by someone trying to wash away bloodstains.”
“You read a lot of crime novels?” Bob asked.
“Hundreds. They’re my favorite.”
“So where’s the bloody hand towel or rag or whatever?” Bruce asked.
“Gone. There was no electricity, but the hot water pressure would’ve worked until the tank ran dry. Our suspect couldn’t toss the hand towel in the washing machine because it wasn’t working. And it’s empty now. He couldn’t leave behind the evidence, so he simply left with it.”
“Our suspect?” Bruce asked.
“Indulge me here. This could be serious.”
“It’s already serious,” Bob said.
“Got that.”
Bruce said, “You’re thinking somebody came over here in the middle of a Category 4 hurricane, caught Nelson in the den, whacked him in the head, dragged his body outside, tried to clean up the blood, and then ran off. Seriously?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Nick said. “Actually, it was the perfect time to kill somebody and make it look accidental.”
“I like it,” Bob said. “But where’s the blood on the floor?”
They looked at their feet. All six were on a wet and stained rug. Nick said, “It’s too dark in here to see anything, but what if, and, again, just indulge me, but what if we’re standing in the middle of a crime scene?”
Bob said, “I didn’t do it, I swear.”
Bruce said, “Let’s take a closer look at his head.”
They studied each other’s eyes for a second, then tiptoed back to the patio. Nick took the lead and inched closer to the corpse. He lifted a towel and leaned down. The bloody gash above Nelson’s left ear was sickening and, to their untrained eyes, certainly looked ghastly enough to cause death. Using the towel and being careful not to touch him with his fingers, Nick tried to lift Nelson’s head, but his neck was already stiff.
Nick stood and said, “Okay, here’s what I think we should do. Let’s roll the body off and let it land on the deck. We need to see his face and the other side of his head.”
Bruce said, “Not so sure about that. The cops have seen him and they’ll know we messed with the corpse.”
Bob said, “I agree. I ain’t touching him.”
Nick said, “Okay, then we can put him back to where he is right now. But we need to see everything.”
“Why?” Bruce asked. “What’s your theory?”
“The killer hit him once inside and knocked him out, then dragged him out here and whacked him again, probably more than once, to finish him off.”
“In the middle of the storm?” Bruce asked. “With rain coming down in sheets?”
“Exactly. The killer wasn’t worried about getting wet. Don’t you see? It was the perfect time to kill him.”
“With what?” Bob asked.
“Exactly! With something the killer found in the apartment. He didn’t show up at the door with a gun or a knife. He got inside, maybe it was someone Nelson knew but sure as hell didn’t know what he wanted, and he let him in because he was roaming around in a Cat 4. The guy grabbed a fire poker or a baseball bat or something he probably knew was in the apartment, and used it.”
“You’ve read too many crime novels,” Bob said.
“You’ve already used that line,” Nick replied.